


Caught by the First Winter's Chill

by katajainen



Series: February Ficlet Challenge 2018 [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Huddling For Warmth, Introspection, Mortality, No beta - provided as is, The Grey Company, The Oathbreakers, The Paths of the Dead, The Stone of Erech - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 16:16:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13550988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katajainen/pseuds/katajainen
Summary: Ghosts of Men should hold no dread to the daughter of Elrond. Yet their presence weighs cold and relentless upon her spirit, and there seems little she can do to banish the chill. But she finds solace in the oldest and simplest of remedies: the warmth of another.Set in an 'Arwen rides south with her brothers and the Grey Company' AU (because she made Aragorn such a fancy standard she might as well deliver it personally).





	Caught by the First Winter's Chill

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1 of the February 2018 Ficlet Challenge, prompt 'huddling for warmth'.
> 
> A/N: set very firmly in the book-verse, in case you couldn't tell :)

The deep darkness of the wolf’s hour rested over the Hill of Erech as their company made their camp, and very air around them seemed to stand still, frozen by the the heavy, unmoving silence of the Dead.

Arwen sat herself down close to where she had propped up the standard, the bright bold sigils she had wrought upon it lost in the gloom about them, and pondered upon the strange new feeling of unease that had caught her unawares over the past day and night.

Her brothers had passed through the dreaded paths below Dwimorberg unconcerned by the shades of Men, yet she had found herself drawn to the sound and sight of the Shadow Host, spurred on perhaps by some manner of morbid curiosity towards the thing that would discomfit even a staunch company of Rangers.

Yet slowly, almost without her noticing, the curiosity had changed into a peculiar restlessness that made her glance over her shoulder for the chilling presence that seemed to be constantly nipping at her heels, so close as to make the skin of her back prickle. It had grown worse over their race to the Stone, riding hard under a beclouded sky, the daylight fading fast and a haunted wind pursuing them with a grave-cold breath over each hurried, desperate mile.

Now the ghosts surrounded them, and their oppressive silence lay over her thoughts like a heavy pall of frost and shadow, and she could not ease herself enough to rest, instead sitting stiffly in the dead grass, her eyes fixed in the impenetrable darkness beyond the camp.

She wondered if perhaps by binding her heart to a one of mortal race she had already gained her share of mortal fears, even if her own years were still long and without end, lest this war bring it about by an enemy’s hand.

Better it should be so, the thought went on, if the war be lost, for any such defeat would utterly frustrate all the hopes her heart held dear. Better she be dead then– and this notion startled her, for how could she wish for her spirit to pass on to where her love could not follow? She did not know what paths the shades of Men might take, but she knew that if they should triumph and her hopes come to fruition, she would one day walk them herself.

She drew her cloak tighter around herself and stared with hard unblinking eyes into the night that held the restless dead of a past Age, and while she found pity in her heart for their cursed half-life without peace, it was mixed with gratitude at the existence of such a host at a time when Isildur’s heir had a need of it, and she denied herself all guilt she might feel over rejoicing in their plight, for the Oathbreakers had brought their own doom over themselves, and their redemption might mean the difference between victory and defeat in a struggle where her own happiness was inseparably entwined with that of all Middle-earth.

‘Are you cold?’

Arwen started at the question, for she had not noticed that another had come to share in her lonely vigil. The question was simple in itself, even if a strange thing to ask of an elf, but she found herself hard pressed to answer it, for she was, and was not cold, for what ailed her was not so much a chill of the body as a chill of the soul.

But her silence seemed to be an answer enough for Aragorn, because he shifted closer and spread his cloak around the both of them. She leaned her head against his shoulder with a wordless sigh, and found some measure of comfort at that, even if she could think of no reason why a mere warmth of body should have any power against the bitter cold that clung to her spirit. No reason, yet as she sat there beneath a cloak of Lórien and held close by her heart’s own beloved, she felt the weight of fear grow less with each passing breath, diminishing until she could master it and hold sway over her own mind once more.

It was fitting, she thought to herself as Aragorn leaned against her in turn, his breath taking on the deep, slow rhythm of slumber, that the one who had, however unintentionally, brought such new affliction upon her, should also be the one to banish it.

The pale of dawn found them curled upon the cold ground in the lee of Isildur’s black sky-fallen stone, their long-held fragile hopes sheltered against the chill of the world by the warm certainty of their embrace.


End file.
